Step Forward
by atheshar
Summary: Year four at Hogwarts School, a year of dragons, merpeople, mazes, and Champions. But when a strange and shadowy Dark Arts teacher from Durmstrang comes to Hogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament, events unfold differently than one might expect. HPxPotO
1. Patience, or Lack Thereof

_I'd like to start this off with a **disclaimer:** All characters, settings, and cannon events told within this story are the property of J.K. Rowling, Andrew Lloyd Webber, Leroux, Kay, and the other geniuses behind the writing and scripting of both Harry Potter and The Phantom of the Opera. I have no claim to them whatsoever, nor do I intend to pursue such. This is for the pure enjoyment of (ph/f)ans and authoress alike._

_Also, endless thanks to Ava, who not only beta-read this but also suffered to look up quotes in GoF since her copy is handy and mine isn't, and retype half the novel into AIM so I got the words right. Viele danken, Ava… viele danken!_

Hello, and welcome to my first-ever Harry Potter fanfic. Though, strictly speaking, this has less to do with Harry himself than the world he is in. This is (as the summary states) an AU interpretation of Harry's fourth year and the infamous Triwizard Tournament, with a Phantomized twist. What if Karkaroff was not the only professor to come with the Durmstrang students? What if events turned out differently, and Harry was not the only one to receive 'outside help'? What if, in short, there were four Dark Mark bearers wandering Hogwarts grounds that year, instead of three?

Dragons rampage, merpeople end up mute, and portkeys don't always go where they intend to…and more than one violent snake gets bitten on by a skull in this AU retelling of the tale of the Goblet of Fire.

**STEP FORWARD**

**Chapter I: Patience, or Lack Thereof**

"_The face is the mirror of the mind, and eyes without speaking confess the secrets of the heart."_

_(Saint Jerome)_

"You're dead certain about this, aren't you?"

"I have told you before, Igor, but I will not again," he hissed in fluent Russian. "Tell him it is to continue the student's studies. Tell him it is for the honor of Durmstrang. Tell him you've got a dragon in the bowels of the ship and want someone to watch over it—I don't care what you say or how crazy it sounds, but my mind is set on this entire affair; let me make that _perfectly clear_."

He practically spat the last words. The thin, reedy Headmaster looked back at him, trying—and failing—to keep his expression smooth. "Very well," Karkaroff said at length. The man standing in the frame of the doorway favored him with a sardonic smile before turning to go, his footsteps hardly a creaking whisper on the floorboards of the ship.

There were several long moments of silence before the student on duty appeared in the doorway. "Headmaster?" he asked, curious, finding Karkaroff staring blindly off into nowhere.

The Headmaster blinked, and jerked his gaze to the seventh-year. "Dastrovsky. Find Viktor and tell him I want to see him."

"Yes, Professor…" he said, fully aware that Karkaroff was no longer listening.

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_Saints and sepulchers, they make even more racket in English than they do in Russian,_ he sneered to himself. The noise from the adjacent hall was deafening, despite what he could recognize to be the voices of several teachers raised in protest. He imagined he could feel the stone of the wall itself vibrating against his back with the sound, but of course that was in his mind only. Hogwarts was as solidly built as Durmstrang, if not as secretive. It had witnessed a hundred times as more dangerous exploits as an exuberant bunch of students yammering at the top of their lungs… it would survive tonight.

At length he heard a tone that could only belong to Dumbledore, and thankfully the brouhaha quieted to a more respectfully low murmur. Imperceptibly he shifted his back against the cold stone wall, turning his head to glance over at Karkaroff. The Headmaster actually had the audacity to send an oily smile his way. He tilted an eyebrow, and turned his concentration to attempting to listen in on the Hogwarts Headmaster:

"…_and now, our friends from the north…"_

Ah, Karkaroff, here's your cue. Don't miss the entrance.

"…_the proud sons of Durmstrang!"_

Right on target the gathered students in the corridor outside the Great Hall banged the doors back and marched in on perfect time. Good, he thought, as they filed swiftly past him; they had practiced enough to get this perfect, and if they botched it now there'd be the Dark Lord to pay…

Awed silence, and then that inevitable susurration, hundreds of whispered voices overlapping each other. It ran together to his ears, but this close to the door he could pick out when one student purportedly leaned to the one next to him and said a bit louder than the rest, _"It's him! Krum!"_

No, really, the silent listener thought. I was under the impression that it was your grandmother, dropping by for a spot of tea. He crossed his arms, alone now in the darkened hallway. Light from the adjacent room flashed through the half-open doorway, pooling brilliantly on the stone corridor's floor. In its reflected glare he was little more than a faint shadow, outlined in his black robes as a formless figure leaning against the adjacent wall. He stood there for a long while, even after the murmur of conversation and clink of silverware told him that dinner was well begun, and Karkaroff was likely wondering where he had got to.

His slight downcurl of the mouth became a full sneer that flashed white teeth, startling in the darkness. The Headmaster knew well enough his distaste for crowds. Out of all his years at Durmstrang, how often had he bothered to turn up for a single formal session?

That was out of the question, though, this year. It had taken a great deal of coercion and no little threatening before Karkaroff reluctantly included him on this little expedition. The Triwizard Tournament, who had not heard of it? When the first rumors of its reinstallation were confirmed, he had waved them off as a useless trifle. Let Dumbledore stage his little affair; it would come to nothing in the end.

It wasn't until only a few weeks back, when the actual arrangements for who exactly was to attend were being made, that he had cornered Karkaroff in his office. He still remembered that encounter, leaning far too blandly forward over the heavy oaken desk, a terrifyingly benign expression on his face as he informed Igor in _no uncertain terms_ that there had better be a place booked for him on the Durmstrang ship.

It hadn't been so easy as that, of course, and while Karkaroff had started off adamant, he had had his ways. In the end it had come to his flat-out threats before the Headmaster had relented. Igor held out quite a while, protesting that nowhere in the rules did it mention that the delegations of students were to be accompanied by anyone other than their Headmaster or –mistress; of course, it did not say that staff members from the schools were not allowed to attend, either. It was just that none of them would abandon the rest of the school's students to a year's worth of incompetent substitutes.

_From what I hear, Potter's had three years of "incompetent substitutes" and hardly seems to be suffering in any of his 'acquaintances' with Voldemort,_ he had snapped icily.

_With… Him? Don't make me laugh… surely you don't actually _believe _the stories Dumbledore prates about… His… imminent return,_ Karkaroff said, his shaky smile not quite masking the underlying fear in his voice.

He had leaned close, putting their faces within inches of each other, his voice perfectly flat. _So quick to write it off, Igor? One might think you are nervous about Voldemort's return._

_Don't—_

_I will say his name as I wish and when I wish, Karkaroff,_ he had snapped back, his patience thoroughly at an end. _Were I in your position, something as silly as a word would be among the _least_ things I had to fear. Now. I am **quite** certain the students can manage a single year without me. Dolohov is messy, I admit, but he knows the basics, and the older students are advanced enough in the subject to get along fine with their studies._ Karkaroff had actually opened his mouth to argue, but a cocked eyebrow and a violent glare convinced him otherwise. _I did not haul you out of that messy situation eleven years ago just to lose the chance to start it up again, Igor. I am coming with you, and that is the end of it._

He remembered he had laughed then. _You'd probably mishandle our favorite Bulgarian if I didn't come along, anyways. I'm beginning to think he's even more advanced than you are in certain subjects. Loyalty, for one. He knows where the truths lie, and it will take more than a whispered Imperius Curse to shift that around._

_What, not so certain? Believe me, I've put him through it more than once. He's almost as good at shaking them off as he is casting them. Talent for all sides of the Dark Arts; it runs both ways._

That _hadn't_ been the end of it, and even his patience was beginning to be tried before Karkaroff caved and allowed him along. As if he wouldn't just Apparate into Hogsmeade and stay on the ship anyways. It was just… easier… to make everything _look_ official. Then there would be fewer questions about his presence on the grounds, especially if he made his ties to the Durmstrang students painstakingly clear. No need to give the Ministry a bone to chew.

Speaking of which, by the sounds from the adjacent hall, dinner was about concluding. He pushed himself off the wall, somewhat surprised by how stiff he was, and how long he had been leaning in the shadows, thinking to himself. Well, he should get into the hall before the unveiling of the Triwizard Cup, or Karkaroff would be beside himself. Not that that was not amusing at times, but he could do without the lecture; he had already promised the Durmstrang students a session aboard ship that evening—no need to let their studies slip, Tournament or not. Dealing with Karkaroff beforehand would put him in an irritable mood, never good for getting the point across when he was dealing with matters of finesse, like the Imperius Curse. The other two Unforgivables, maybe, but an angry mind behind _imperio!_ usually made the curse crack under significant pressure, and a successful cast got the point across more quickly to the class.

He paused outside in the shadows of the door for a moment, allowing his gaze to stray across the room before he entered. It was easy to locate the Durmstrang contingent, over at what he presumed to be the Slytherin table from the green-and-silver banner hung directly overhead. Slytherin—ah, if he could think of a more elegant prat than that one, he would be amazed. Brilliant, but incredibly shortsighted nonetheless.

He located Karkaroff up at the teacher's table, along with several other unfamiliar faces—he would have to get to know them sooner or later, but later was preferable. Thankfully the student's attention seemed to be fixed on Dumbledore, who was on his feet for another speech, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. The watcher managed to keep his expression from twisting in contempt and instead slid in through the door, into the light. Not one of the students even glanced his way, intent on the other side of the hall. He could have sworn he felt Dumbledore's eyes on him though, and resisted the desire to hunch his shoulders and slouch over like Krum was prone to doing in public congregations. Instead he contented himself with sliding quietly along the wall to the far corner, and crossing his arms in his midnight robes, waiting with not nearly as much patience as his position suggested.

Grey eyes scanned the students in the hall out of boredom, not looking for anything in particular. Finally his gaze settled on Krum, seated next to a pale-haired Slytherin boy who looked rather like his bench was really the Stone of Scone and he was about to be crowned King of England. Viktor was his usual dour self, scowling at the table and largely ignoring him. His familiar, predictable behavior—retreat, lay traps, retreat, and glare at the enemy as he tangled himself up uselessly—was reassuring.

Finally his gaze grazed over the teacher's table at the far end of the hall, skipping from one to the other. His eyebrows rose. Well well, it wasn't Dumbledore that was looking at him after all. _Hello there. You likely weren't expecting to see me here this year, were you old friend? Well, snap for expectations. What about a nice welcome for me? It has been a while, hasn't it?_

He might need Legilimency to read minds, but there was no way that Severus Snape could mistake the slow sardonic smile from the masked figure reclining in the corner to be anything but what it was: a sly greeting from a very old friend.

It might serve to explain why a certain spot on his left forearm seemed to be burning its way through his skin.


	2. Socially Incompetent

**STEP FORWARD**

**Chapter II: Socially Incompetent**

_"Benevolence alone will not make a teacher, nor will learning alone do it. The gift of teaching is a peculiar talent, and implies a need and a craving in the teacher himself."_

_(John Jay Chapman)_

"The Triwizard Tournament is about to start. I would like to say a few words of explanation before we bring in the casket—"

The murmurs that followed Dumbledore's statement gave him a reason to ignore the wasp-faced fourth-year on his right, who had all throughout the dinner been trying to engage him in conversation. If you could call his endless talk about wealth and status and wizarding bloodlines "conversation". He seemed delightfully pleased that Durmstrang admitted only pureblood students, as if that somehow raised the quality of the school. Viktor had had that notion soundly disabused out of him the first day the subject had been singled out during Dark Arts…

"…_Voldemort did, of course, make one very foolish mistake. In one move he alienated a good portion of the Wizarding community." Singled out because of his Quidditch fame even then, Krum had kept his eyes firmly fixed on the desktop in front of him. He had no desire whatsoever to draw any more attention to himself than necessary._

_Unfortunately it was not so easy in this case. "Krum."_

_He looked up, slightly, dark eyes meeting the grey gaze of his inquisitor. "Professor."_

"_Perhaps you have some insight as to this situation." The unwavering gaze made the suggestion a command; the almost-present smile made the command a threat._

"_He declined half-bloods and muggle-borns from his ranks," the Bulgarian Seeker replied in a low voice. He cut it off there, glowering again at his desk._

"_Excellent," had come the soft voice. "Yes indeed. Voldemort, despite his own parentage, was dedicated to the point of obsession with Slytherin's pureblood fantasy. Practically he did not even consider the repercussions of so much inbreeding. One might boast of the pedigree of a fine racing horse, but too many generations in the same bloodline leads terrible defects and eventually extinction…"_

_Talking about people, about those seated in the room even, as horses, or dogs. The same casual despondency as when he taught the Dark Arts. At least, unlike Karkaroff before he came, he went so far as to teach Defense as well. After all, he had explained, with another of those characteristic wry smiles, the talent went to both sides, and the one enhanced the other…_

"…as you know, three champions compete in this tournament, one from each of the participating schools." Viktor looked up again, dark eyes fixed on the Headmaster. He had received this speech before, back at Durmstrang where the attending seventeen were to be chosen, though then Karkaroff had filled it with large protestations about upholding the honor of the school, and living up to the legacy of the Durmstrang Institute. "They will be marked on how well they perform each of the Tournament tasks and the champion with the highest total after task three will win the Triwizard Cup," Dumbledore was saying. "The champions will be chosen by an impartial selector: the Goblet of Fire."

"It's about time," the boy next to him—Malfoy, was it?—said, tossing his head. "What is with this rubbish anyways? The way Father mentioned the Goblet of Fire I expected it to be something more, well, _spectacular_."

The Goblet was wooden, its edges rough, as if it had been roughly carved into the vaguest outline of a cup and set to use before the edges had been properly smoothed and polished. It certainly lacked the grandeur of crystal or gold, and was not spectacularly set with gems of any sort, but there was something oddly regal and mystical to its rustic appearance that made Viktor lean forward slightly, putting more weight on his forearms on the table.

That made no mention of the fact that blue fire was dancing just within the brim of the cup, as if someone had scooped from a lake of the magical flames and set the goblet out filled with this peculiar brew. The light danced across the planes of Dumbledore's face, highlighting his long silver beard, gleaming off the gold of his glasses. "Anyone wishing to submit themselves as a champion must write their name and school clearly upon a slip of parchment and drop it into the goblet," said Dumbledore softly, looking out across the hall.

From the eager look in Malfoy's eyes, he was likely already imagining the slip of parchment reading _Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts School_. Unless his Father had already informed him of the age limit. He found himself oddly wishing that he hadn't, just to see Malfoy's expression…

Right then, however, he caught sight of the shadowed figure in the corner of the hall behind Malfoy from his position, and forgot entirely about the slippery fourth-year for the moment.

He couldn't ever remember seeing his Professor in any gathering larger than his classroom before. Then again, Viktor was not particularly fond of them himself, as they seemed for the most part to include large clusters of girls who were fit to either burst into giggles or keep staring at him the entire time. He hunched over a bit more, attempting to ignore several such stares directed towards him now, Goblet or no Goblet. _You would think one of them would have some sense,_ he thought dourly, but it seemed there was no escaping it even here.

However, there was no mistaking the tall, lean figure standing quietly off to himself. If the black robes and dark hair and unusual light grey eyes did not give him away, then the mask surely would. White leather, it hid everything from mouth to forehead except for those twin burning eyes. No one could ever recall seeing him without it.

Dumbledore's voice brought him back to his surroundings. "…Please be very sure, therefore, that you are wholeheartedly prepared to play before you drop your name into the goblet. Now, I think it is time for bed. Good night to you all."

There was the thunderous grinding noise of hundreds of people pushing back benches as they rose to their feet, talking excitedly to each other. More than a few wore expressions of disappointment, no doubt about the age requirement. There were a pair of redheads one table over that in particular looked as if they found out they had slept through Christmas, and someone had stolen their presents.

Karkaroff stalked by, his expression extremely displeased about something, and gestured the Durmstrang contingent to follow him, waiting only long enough for Viktor to leave the Slytherin table. Apparently they were stuck in snakelike company since Karkaroff was an old friend of their Head of House, or some such. For his own part Viktor would rather have stayed on board the ship for the entire affair. He glanced towards the corner, but his Professor was no longer in evidence. Likely he had taken advantage of the confusion to make a swift escape before the crowds of students began shoving their way towards the door.

Viktor fell into step behind Karkaroff, his hands in his pockets again, looking forward to heading out towards the relative quiet of the ship himself. The thought had no sooner crossed his mind than the Durmstrang Headmaster pulled up to an abrupt halt, staring. Viktor looked up long enough to see a trio of surprised fourth-years—_not another three Malfoys, I hope,_ he thought glumly—standing near the doors. One of them had fiery red hair; he wouldn't be surprised if he was closely related to the twins who had looked so disappointed over the age requirement. The other was a bushy-haired girl with brown eyes. But it was the last at whom his reedy Headmaster was staring, and it didn't take brilliance in any subject to discern who the black-haired, green-eyed boy was, even if he did self-consciously flatten his hair in an attempt to make sure his bangs fell low over his forehead.

"Yeah, that's Harry Potter," growled a voice behind them.

"You!" Karkaroff said, straightening, glaring at the grizzled man who had spoken with utmost distaste.

"Me," the man said grimly, his magical eye fixed firmly upon the Durmstrang Headmaster. "And unless you've got anything to say to Potter, Karkaroff, you might want to move. You're blocking the doorway." Karkaroff stared at him a moment longer, fury etched into the lines of his face, and then abruptly turned away.

Karkaroff swept out of the hall, back ramrod straight in an attempt to maintain his dignity, and Viktor shuffled out after him with a last glace at the man who could only be Mad-Eye Moody. He reminded him of his Professor, in an odd way. They both had the same roughness, even if in Moody's case it was far more obvious in his actions.

It was blessedly cooler out on Hogwarts grounds and much quieter as well. Night had fallen full-on during the feast and exposition of the Goblet, and the only illumination came from the open windows of the castle behind them, doing little more than to cast odd squarish patches of light across the smooth sloping grass. The Durmstrang contingent trooped down towards the lake with only the occasional murmur of conversation within its ranks, and it wasn't until one or two students had stumbled, muffling curses, that some pulled out their wands, muttering _"Lumos,"_ adding narrow shafts of wandlight to the scant illumination.

Consequently it was some time before Viktor realized his solitary position behind Karkaroff had been augmented by a certain tall, dark presence. "Dumbledore mentions nothing that we did not know before," said the quiet, oddly melodious, voice. "Perhaps he truly has nothing else to keep from us, then."

"He does not seem the kind that would, Professor," Viktor muttered, gaze fixed somewhere on the ground.

The Professor laughed softly. "Those are the ones you look for the most, Viktor. The quiet ones who keep their mouths shut, the innocent-looking ones with a Killing Curse on the back of their tongue though you would never know it. The ones who always tell the truth. Voldemort hated liars." For some reason he had the impression that the man was not talking about Dumbledore at all. He felt the cold grey eyes measuring him.

"Enough of this," the man said icily, looking down on him. "No need to teach those who have already learned." He took two quick steps forward, until he was at Karkaroff's side, leaning down slightly to regard the Headmaster. He towered over him, tall and thin even in his black cloak. It fluttered slightly in the wind rising off the Black Lake. "Remind the students, Karkaroff, that there is session tonight in the port hold," he said in a voice like a Durmstrang winter storm. One last glance back over the line of students, a faint grimace, and he paced off swiftly into the night towards the Durmstrang ship.

Only when he was long gone did Viktor see Karkaroff's hands deep in a pocket in his robes unclench. How much would he be willing to bet that the Headmaster had had a deathgrip on his wand?

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"Before we left Durmstrang, we were learning mastering resistance to the Imperius Curse," the tall dark man said softly, pacing the end of the hold, his eyes flashing from one to the other. Even after having him for four years, his intense flickering gaze was unnerving, compelling the students into silence. "We will continue that now. Form two lines," he snapped, and everyone rose to their feet and shuffled into place. "Krum, up here." The Bulgarian slouched out of his position in line and walked to the front of the room, hands firmly stuck in his pockets, his dark gaze dour.

"Now," he said softly. "The two of us will place the Imperius Curse on each of you in line. You all have sixty seconds to resist before it is lifted. Anyone who successfully shakes it off will be free from lessons for the rest of the evening. Those who don't… to the back of the line."

One of the students looked at Krum. "But why does he…?"

"Because Viktor remains the only one of you able to cast a decent Imperius," he hissed at them. "In _line_, Kostrov. Now, Dastrovsky, step forward." Hesitantly, the student complied. His wand lifted.

"_Imperio!"_

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**Notes:**

1001 thanks again to Ava, who tirelessly cross-checked all my dialogue for me so I didn't screw things up. _"I suddenly feel as though my fingers don't belong to me anymore,_" – well, neither do I!

I do apologize for the relatively slow beginning, but I want to get this sorted out in my own head as well as yours.

_**Disclaimer:** All characters, settings, and cannon events told within this story are the property of J.K. Rowling, Andrew Lloyd Webber, Leroux, Kay, and the other geniuses behind the writing and scripting of both Harry Potter and The Phantom of the Opera. I have no claim to them whatsoever, nor do I intend to pursue such. This is for the pure enjoyment of (ph/f)ans and authoress alike._


	3. A Matter of Chance

**STEP FORWARD**

**Chapter III: A Matter of Chance**

"_We are not now that strength which in old days  
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;  
One equal temper of heroic hearts,  
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will  
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."_

_(Alfred Lord Tennyson)_

He woke up to the softly spoken word, _lumos,_ and a faint gleam of light playing about the interior of his cabin. He could feel the ship listing slightly beneath him, like a living thing, but he hardly paid it any attention. The locking charm on his door would have been enough to hold out all but the most determined _alohamora_, and it was the light spell that woke him, not the unlocking itself.

He kept his eyes closed but for slits, though there was no way there was enough light for it to glitter off his pupils and betray that he was awake. His fingers, lax in sleep, slowly curled over the smooth wood of his wand, cradled still between his fingers. The narrow beam of light from the intruder's want flitted across the ceiling, drifting downwards… almost… almost… _now!_

"**STUPEFY!"** he yelled.

"_Expelliarimus,"_ the intruder snapped out an instant before his charm; the wand jerked from his hand. _"Accio,"_ the man added, snatching the length of hornbeam from the air as it flew to his hand. The narrow beam of wandlight dipped enough to reveal the distinctive hook-nosed, dark-browed profile of Krum, clearly just awoken from sleep, now wandless. It also gleamed off a distinctive white mask.

"Curl your fingers around the wand _after_ you are in motion next time," the intruder advised, reversing the short length of wood and tossing it to the newly awakened, who caught it as deftly as if it were the snitch and he were zipping along at unearthly speeds on a broom. The Seeker's only response was a noncommittal grunt as he shoved the wand carelessly into a pocket in his robes. "Other than that, admirable. One day you will be scraping me off the decking," the dark figure said; Viktor had the impression that he was smiling, though it was impossible to see in this poor light.

"Not likely," Viktor muttered. "Professor."

"That's Erik to you," the man warned. "We are out of class."

"Erik," the Bulgarian grunted.

"Better. Pick up your robe, and follow me. I have something to show you." The tall man turned on his heel and stalked out of the cabin, if 'stalking' was something that could be carried out in absolute silence. Viktor picked up his school robes and wrapped them around his shoulders, and scuffed his feet into his boots. Carefully he checked his wand; the wood was smooth against his fingers. He slouched out of the cabin, tapping the doorknob lightly with his wand and muttering a locking charm. It had not held Erik back, but then… that was Erik.

Speaking of which, the Professor was waiting a little ways down the corridor. He inclined his head and started off; Viktor followed him, as silently as he could, but even to his ears every move he made seemed unnaturally loud in the wake of the absolute silence of the man he followed.

Soon they were off the ship and onto the Hogwarts grounds proper, one tall swift shadow and one slower one, hunched over out of habit and not against the cold. He hadn't bothered with his cloak, and the night air hardly seemed to affect him, cold or no cold. The ground wasn't frozen, nothing to crunch under their feet, nothing but soft grass to whisper in the wake of their passing, a hundred nearly-silent snakes. A silencing charm used on a waterfall that could not quite hide the murmuring susurration.

Unerringly Erik's shadowed form crossed the grass up towards the castle proper, as if he was very much aware of he was going. Viktor followed.

He shuffled into the Entrance Hall, watching where he was going with the periphery of his vision, gaze somewhere on the ground. A faint blue light illuminated the well-worn floors, plenty for him to see his way. A light touch on his shoulder, so faint he almost thought he imagined it, stopped him. "Tomorrow morning, Karkaroff will likely have you lined up to submit your names," the dark man behind him said, almost lightly. Viktor knew without looking that about which he spoke; the blue light was a flickering illumination from the Goblet itself, placed in the center of the entranceway. His Professor moved up beside him, hands folded casually in the small of his back; the faint light gleamed eerily off his mask. "I can't say I'm particularly interested in that parade."

"Parade?" Viktor grunted, tearing his eyes away from the floor long enough to examine the Goblet. "The other sixteen haff been arguing… months… for this 'parade'." The other sixteen, but not himself. He might be Viktor Krum, Karkaroff's prize boy, the Bulgarian Seeker, world-famous Quidditch player, but that was more than he wanted. This 'eternal glory' Dumbledore mentioned he would as soon pass up. Karkaroff, naturally, had not allowed his opinion on the matter.

"I think we all know whose name has a fair chance of emerging from that blue fire, Viktor," Erik said dryly. Funny, that; in Durmstrang he had spoken Russian fluently, so that it seemed he must be a native speaker. But now that his language was English it, too, was accentless. The Durmstrang seventh-year regarded him guardedly; how many languages had his Dark Arts professor mastered? How many pasts had he lived with them, blending effortlessly into every country, before he came to Russia?

Not effortlessly. His dark eyes strayed over the distinctive mask. He had never seen Erik without it; before he had taken it as a mark of wizardly eccentricity. Now, he was not so sure.

He would have preferred to speak in Bulgarian, but he took Erik's switch of language as a cue, a deadpan reminder that now they had to abandon at least part of their multicultural trappings. "Vell," Viktor muttered, "I am remembering that the Headmaster says, it vill haff to be impartial. To choose vich of us vill compete."

"The Goblet of Fire is an impartial judge," Erik agreed, leaving his side, walking towards the Goblet and its makeshift stool. "That does not mean it is witless. Nor is it random. It chooses the best among those who submit their names, freed from human bias, but not human judgment. There is no _chance_ or _probability_ concerned with it. It knows that which it chooses; the time delay is a matter of… convenience. Almost predictable. Ironic, isn't it—it is likely the closest thing to fate the world will ever know." He stared up at it, almost hungrily, pacing just around the edges of the thin golden Age Line. In the faint glow, he looked less a man than something… other. A shadow. A phantom.

"It makes one wonder, doesn't it," the masked man said softly, "for what use it was made. Surely such a magical artifact was not created merely for selecting a champion for something so little as a school competition." He laughed, slightly, and stepped across the Age Line. It remained silent, even as he trailed one finger along the rim of the Goblet. The blue flames danced just within, inches from his fingertip. He did not stir, just looked at it, mesmerized.

It clearly took a great deal of effort for him to take the first step back, and then another, and not until he had recrossed the Age Line did Erik seem his usual dispassionate self. As if privately angry, he pulled his black robes close around his thin frame, glaring at the Goblet.

"That ve vill haff not to know, I think," Viktor said, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets, glancing over at Erik from beneath heavy brows. He was without his cloak, but the night air was not cold at all compared to what it would be in Durmstrang at this time of year. He knew not to rush things. His dark Professor would come around to the details when he decided it was right. Usually those details were worth knowing.

"No," his strange teacher admitted softly, looking at the Goblet. Then he seemed to snap out of something, an enchantment, looking much like a man who has just broken free of the Imperius Curse. His grey eyes flicked over to Viktor. "Come. This is not what I intended to show you." He made a swift, peremptory gesture, again spinning on his heel, though this time his glance made sure Viktor followed.

He did.

Several long corridors, shifting stairs, and empty halls later, and the shadow that was Erik led him out onto a south-facing balcony propped up on one level of the castle or another. Below them the lawns fell away in a wide sweep that lifted abruptly skyward in a foreboding mass: the Dark Forest. His professor placed both hands on the balcony railing, leaning forward slightly, then raised one gloved hand to point swiftly. "There," he murmured.

Viktor glanced out over the grounds. "Vat?"

"There," Erik said again, gesturing slightly. "At the very edge of the trees."

The Bulgarian's eyes narrowed. "I see nothing," he said, somewhat perturbed. His eyesight was excellent, keen enough to pick up the snitch twinkling a hundred yards away as it darted about the base of a goalpost. If there was something at the edge of the forest, then he could not… wait. He too leaned forward on the rail, his dark brows dropping low over his eyes. "Wat is that?" he asked. "I haff…" he frowned. "I feel I should know vat it is. But I am not remembering."

Erik cocked an eyebrow; it was the closest he had heard to irritation in the Bulgarian's tone. "Thestrals, Viktor," he said, tapping his wand on the railing. The metal hummed faintly. "Apparently Dumbledore has a whole herd of thestrals in these woods, for whatever reason." He did not sound overly curious. Instead, he sounded… confident. Pleased?

It wasn't until the two of them had trekked back to the Durmstrang ship and Viktor had stripped out of his robes and crawled back into bed, fingers of his right hand curling over the handle of his wand carefully, that the import of the entire conversation struck him. They bred thestrals at Hogwarts. Whatever that meant for the school or for international laws, it certainly was an interesting fact. However, it had not elicited a reaction from Erik in its mere self, qua its truth.

No, what had put that self-satisfactory tone into the Dark Arts Professor's voice had been Viktor's admittance that there was indeed something there at the edge of the woods, and in particular that he could _see_ that it was there. It took the silence of the ship about him, and his own stillness, for him to remember when they covered thestrals two years ago, remember the situation concomitant on the ability to see them. As far as Erik knew, and very rightly on the evidence, Viktor had seen someone die, had been present as the life bled from a person, had watched it with his own eyes. Perhaps even done the deed himself.

His hand clenched around the shaft of his wand, so hard the knuckles were bone-white, and he firmly shut his eyes in a desperate attempt to forget.

Needless to say, the attempt failed miserably.

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**Notes:**

-Insert bow to Ava here- HAPPY BIRTHDAY! 16. Holy cow.

Hopefully I have not terribly distorted anything in cannon. Internet searches have yielded me very little about the actual history of Durmstrang Institute, and sadly the internet is my only current resource. According to Wikipedia, it is likely a German-founded Russian institution, and that is how I am playing it (it makes the most sense in my mind that way).

German and Russian… I definitely have a soft spot for those two.

_**Disclaimer:** All characters, settings, and cannon events told within this story are the property of J.K. Rowling, Andrew Lloyd Webber, Leroux, Kay, and the other geniuses behind the writing and scripting of both Harry Potter and The Phantom of the Opera. I have no claim to them whatsoever, nor do I intend to pursue such. This is for the pure enjoyment of (ph/f)ans and authoress alike._


	4. Black Pity

**STEP FORWARD**

**Chapter IV: Black Pity**

"_Twisted every way, what answer can I give? Am I to risk my life to win the chance to live?"_

_(Christine, ALW)_

Lovely.

A quaint little French-style chateau, innocuously out of place in Britain, but nonetheless contentedly sprawled over the hills of Wales; a stone manor house, wooden outbuildings, a neat row of gardens carefully kept by no doubt meticulous staff—all of it spoke of a well-to-do Ministry official, high in the department of National Culture, with a passing care about a house that had been in his family for generations.

Darkness.

The grounds were utterly deserted, as they would have to be for any sane person. It was an ungodly three o'clock in the morning local time, and only six where he had Apparated from. However he hadn't gotten the time difference backwards; when the soft _crack_ of his Apparation snapped the night, he appeared fully expecting the dreadful silence. It was a new moon, so the night was exceptionally dark, though the sky was clear. Stars winked down, far less than he was used to, blocked out from the light pollution of nearby urban areas. In Russia the sky was wide open, and you could see a billion stars if you could see one. Here…

Well, there was enough light to see by, though that wasn't saying much. It had never taken much light at all for him to find his way, and he was quietly pleased that anyone looking out one of the manor's windows (but there were none) would not even be able to make him out as an indistinct black shape framed against the starry sky.

Black cloak swirling about his heels, he walked up to the door and hesitated, staring down at the ornate silver handle cast in the shape of a roaring lion. He sneered faintly; a flash of white teeth against the black of his robes, of his cloak, of his mask. His wand tip hovered an inch above the door handle. _"Alohomora,"_ he hissed, and the lock clicked and came free. A lock, a muggle defense, as if that would stop anyone of _real_ import from walking in. It was about as useful as the security guards down at the gate at the foot of the hill, and not even a single Disapparation Ward about the entire building.

He hesitated on the threshold; the dark interior beckoned him on. After some internal struggle he spun to face back out into the night, grey eyes gleaming with suppressed emotion. _"MORSMORDRE!",_ and then he was running, down the hall and up the first flight of stairs on the left, a fleet black shadow in ephemeral form. Someone was yelling something; on his way past the second landing he glanced out the tall glass casements and caught a glimpse of the grinning skull and coiling snake framed against the starry sky. He had only moments before the Ministry and their Aurors would be all over the building, but it was better than waiting till afterwards, not putting the Mark up at all…

The indiscriminate muffled sounds became decipherable as he leveled off at the fourth landing, slowing slightly to catch his breath and quiet the sound of his breathing at the same time. _"For the love of… no! I will **not** let you come with me on this, it's far too dangerous!"_ Then a quiet reply that he could not hear in another voice. His breathing became so shallow it was impossible to hear, his footsteps less than a whisper of leather on wood, the ripple of air disturbed in his passing louder than any other sound but the voices. He could distinctly make out both of them, now.

"I don't care, Raoul, I am not…" he couldn't quite hear that "...here alone." Her voice was so quiet he could barely distinguish it, and parts of it were obscured entirely. His movements became softer, if at all possible. Not even the Dark Lord had been able to fault him on his silence.

"…God help me if it's otherwise than one of them," he heard the other—Raoul—say in what he thought might have been an attempt at a comforting tone. The sound came from just down the hallway, behind a magnificently stained oak door. "But it's likely one of the Farlength boys again… Seventh years, you would think they know better, but now that they can do magic on their own they're up to all kinds of trouble…"

"Please, be careful… in case…" By this time he was right outside their door, fingertips brushing the wooden surface lightly, leaning forward.

"I will. Shh, be back in a mome-"

He cut off as the door swung back slowly, framing a tall, thin figure in immaculate black. The visitor's hard cold gaze strafed the room, pinning it flat, immobile in time. Luxurious red velvet drapes swept gracefully over the corners of a four-post ash bed. A thick carpet of the same hue blanketed the floor, looking like nothing so much as a calm, heavy pool of blood. Ornate gilding framed the cornices and the window, gleaming in the light of a single lit candle on an equally well-crafted bedside stand. Seated on the floor was a young girl, eighteen if she was a day, her long brown hair tousled and cascading over her shoulders, a white dressing gown pulled close about her frame. Crouched over her, half-kneeling with a hand on her slender shoulder, was the man he had come for.

Raoul. Raoul de Chagny, Minister for the Department of British Culture. Raoul, even now somehow angelically perfect-looking despite the rather rude awakening when he had yelled the Dark Mark summons on his front doorstep. Raoul with his shoulder-length blonde hair and blue eyes and perfect smile.

"You have an overdue appointment with the Dark Lord," the black figure said with the smooth melodic tone usually reserved for particularly enticing offers. "He _so_ wants to meet you, I hear…"

"Impedimenta!" the young Minister cried, jabbing his wand at the dark figure in the doorway. The red jet of light blasted through the open space and took out part of the wall in the hallway beyond; stone chips and dust sprayed through the air. It took him a moment to realize he had already missed, that the dark figure was moving. He said a few choice words, tracking about, wishing he had been better at Defense Against the Dark Arts—there: "Stupe-"

"Expelliarimus," the man said before the word left his mouth, then spoke something else he had never heard before, a charm that flattened him against the ground, writhing but unable to rise. "Pity that you would not just come along," the dark intruder said, almost as if he meant it. "Ah well, I suppose dear Voldemort would not have found the conversation terribly interesting. _Avada K-_"

"_Erik?"_

He froze.

Stone, tinder, and discord, he had forgotten about the girl.

"Saints… is that really you? Erik?"

He turned his head, fractionally, just enough that he could glance at her. Condemnation, how could he _not_ have recognized her voice even through the muffling walls and door? Or, when he saw her—granted just in profile—the instant the door slid open, where had been the recognition, his prized memory kicking in for him? The desperate thought crossed his mind that this, of all times, was _not_ the time for this kind of revelation after all… but to see his former student there, staring up with him with doe-frightened brown eyes…

"So you did go with the wealthy young suitor after all?" he ground out in a voice that was not his own. The toe of his boot nudged the Chagny boy, who was still glaring up at him in utter immobile hate. "Pity that. A waste of perfectly good talent, even for a simple little muggle girl like yourself. I might have made something of you." His grin was forced, and was all daggers and ice. Whatever she saw in his eyes made her flinch away.

"You're one of… them… aren't you?" she mumbled.

How many nights had he stayed awake remembering the look on her face when he nodded his head, one single time? It hadn't been horror or revulsion, though she was more than entitled to them. It hadn't been hate. God help him, he could have dealt with hate; Voldemort made sure they knew what hate was. He made sure they felt it coursing through their veins, eating up their bones, an acid they couldn't spit out no matter how hard they tried. He had taught them fear, and anger. But the Dark Lord had never spoken a word on pity.

Pity. It was that which twisted her face as she looked up at him. It made him want to sick up, to vanish into a quiet corner in shame for the rest of his worthless existence. And inexplicably he felt himself burn with anger, anger at _her_ for thinking of him that way, anger at the Dark Lord, anger at himself—everything—this world, cruel and bitter. Didn't she see that he had had no _choice?_ That he had _never_ had _any_ choice whatsoever? Endlessly hounded, pushed in circles, and even _she_ had betrayed him for this boy, this… this _fop!_ It boiled over in his mind, and she was backing away from him, and _now_ there was horror painted on her features: good, he could deal with horror, he knew how…

"Try the upstairs!"

"There is a light in that window—a candle maybe!"

His head snapped around. The Aurors were already converging on the scene. His time was fast slipping away, sand in the hourglass, water between his fingers. "Such a pathetic existence," he sneered, his wand snapping up. She froze, staring down the length of it. Muggle or not, she had been around the Chagny boy long enough to know what he could do, and had heard enough horror stories from the others to know what to expect. "You should have gone the other way, and maybe all of this would have been different, wouldn't it?" the masked Death Eater said in that sibilant, melodious voice. She stared at him, transfixed, a snake before the charmer. "It was all harmless at first… you really thought I was an angel, didn't you, naive girl? An angel of God… more like an angel in Hell." He laughed, shortly. There were footsteps, people running up the stairs. "You have half a moment left to consider how you might have made things different… saved innocent lives… I would make you remember for eternity the kinds of things you broke that night, but unfortunately that is beyond even magic's ability…"

The Aurors were in the hall. He had a few seconds, at the most. "Erik," the girl choked at him. She was crying. Fool girl, why was she crying? That would not get her anywhere.

"You uncaged a demon; tears won't put him behind bars again. I'm sorry Christine." He smiled at her, and for some reason that did not make her shrink back as her eyes looked up through her tears at the masked killer who stood over her and her husband.

"For what?" she said, or at least her lips moved if her mouth didn't actually give voice to the words.

His returning smile was cruel. "For being pitiable." His arm straightened; the ministry wizards burst through the door, hesitating half an instant in surprise, the words to spells already forming in their minds and lips—

"_Avada Kedavra,_" and the world exploded in a rush of green light.

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He exploded into consciousness, jerking upright, to the unpleasant sensation of sweat dripping down his face. Without thinking he raised his arm and wiped it away, his fingers trailing along the edge of the mask he wore even in sleep. He was shivering, despite how much warmer it was here than at Durmstrang, and everything seemed to be unnaturally cold.

For a moment his vision swam with after-images of his dream, turning hazily before his eyes. It was only when he blinked to scatter them and focus on the actual, corporeal world around him that he realized his left arm was burning with a dull, insistent ache. Forcibly he pried his fingers from their deathgrip on his forearm, seeing the skin redden with the ferocity of his grip.

The ship was completely still around him; it could not be past five in the morning, if that, which meant he had slept for perhaps four hours. It was more than he was used to, if he had indeed slept that long. Most nights he did not sleep at all, burning up within with a kind of restless fire, the same thing that made it impossible for him to be more than skin over bones, almost skeletal.

That last comparison made him laugh softly.

Eventually he disentangled himself from the sheets and padded over to the window, his bare feet even more silent on the decking than when he was shod (which was saying something in itself). The small window, above waterline, gave a silent view of the Black Lake, and, at the far end, the fringes of the Forest. He leaned forward, studying, thinking perhaps to catch a glimpse of the thestrals, but they were long gone into darker regions, or so it seemed.

Thestrals, seen only by those who had witnessed death. His dream was more a memory than a nightmare, and that had not been the first time he cast the Killing Curse. Nor the last. Absentmindedly he rubbed his left forearm, then looked down, tilting his arm in the meager light, a frown playing about his features.

There came the sound of someone moving elsewhere in the ship, waking from sleep. It must be nearly five then after all, he thought, his earlier estimates vindicated; a second, less intensive glance out the window showed faint lightening eastwards, further proving the point. Karkaroff would have the Durmstrang students up and entering their names for the Goblet before breakfast at the Great Hall. Erik knew he should be stirring, to shadow behind them at the very least, but for some reason he was finding it difficult to pull himself away from the window.

"_You're one of… them… aren't you?"_ He hadn't even been able to answer. A simple "yes". Nevermind his usual flippant tone, or one of those ready sarcastic remarks. He hadn't even been able to admit to it aloud. He had nodded. That's all.

He slammed his fist into the windowsill, and then stared at it. It took the sound of several people shuffling by his cabin, talking in low voices, to make him realize he had been standing there for a good fifteen minutes staring at nothing. He started, and moved away, reaching for the black robes neatly hung on a peg by the door, glancing once over his cabin, almost austere in how little there was in it.

Once again he found his fingers touching his left arm and snatched them away. It was the dream, that was all, he told himself firmly. The memories of his days in the mask… the _Death Eater's_ mask, he corrected himself firmly… well, they were not entirely pleasant, not even now, fourteen years later. Time didn't touch some things. He looked down at his fingers curled around his left arm, and frowned, slowly moving them away. It must be the poor light… though he had always been perfectly able to see in the dark. Maybe his imagination then, combining with the dream.

He laughed softly to himself. As if either was a plausible reason he was certain that the outline of the Dark Mark was—maybe—just a little bit darker than it had been last night. He might have believed that it was, except that, of course, was totally impossible.

He swung the door open abruptly to see Dastrovsky standing there, one hand tentatively raised to knock. Erik cocked an eyebrow at him, and the seventh-year stepped back hastily, allowing the Dark Arts Professor to sweep by in a flourish of black robes, hissing _"Colloportus"_ as he went. The door slammed shut behind him.

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**Notes:**

For Christine, I took the description of the Movieverse, and for Raoul that of the book. RC shippers… doesn't look like this will be your story. Of course that doesn't mean it will be EC either. But I'm still having fun with it ;)

_**Disclaimer:** All characters, settings, and cannon events told within this story are the property of J.K. Rowling, Andrew Lloyd Webber, Leroux, Kay, and the other geniuses behind the writing and scripting of both Harry Potter and The Phantom of the Opera. I have no claim to them whatsoever, nor do I intend to pursue such. This is for the pure enjoyment of (ph/f)ans and authoress alike._


End file.
